


The Death of Her

by opiumsoon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:17:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opiumsoon/pseuds/opiumsoon
Summary: Fictional, I am not suicidal. If you are, please talk to someone you trust/love.If you read this by accident, don't let it cause any discomfort.Only a fiction, life is valuable, don't commit suicide!!!!!!!!!!!!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fictional, I am not suicidal. If you are, please talk to someone you trust/love.  
> If you read this by accident, don't let it cause any discomfort.  
> Only a fiction, life is valuable, don't commit suicide!!!!!!!!!!!!

It is a rational decision.  
She has been thinking about it. Not about ending her life, precisely, but about her death. There used to be a time when death is not a cloud above her head, a shadow that follows her around; a time when she doesn’t look dead: rosy cheeks, soft lips, lights in her eyes, you know, those vital sign of life. Now, she just looks dead. The color gray paints her with shadow: her hair is like the lifeless grass in the late autumn, fighting for the last stream of water from the soil but cannot escape to inevitable; her eyes, dark, deep like ponds of still water that never flows, when the sun shines on the green, it wouldn’t break into thousands of pieces of emerald embedded with golden lining; and her lips, dry and bled, she hasn’t open her month to speak for awhile, and those lips, have forget how to smile a long time ago.  
Sometimes she stands in front of the mirror and feels a strange flow of amazement for the image inside; she can hardly believe that the person she sees, herself, is alive, well, barely. She shouldn’t be standing, she shouldn’t be moving, she shouldn’t be breathing while in fact, she is standing, moving and breathing. She looks so dead, she feels so dead, and how comes the one in the mirror is still alive. She should see a lifeless body since that is exactly how she imagines herself to be. Dead man walking, she thinks, dead man shouldn’t be walking. She never knows that a person can stay alive when so much of her has already died.  
It is not a cosmetic problem, she’s sure of it. Pink blushing and carol lipstick may help, maybe a little eyeliner to cover the shade under her eyes, a little eye shadow certainly won’t hurt, purple is her color. Yet, what’s the point, she doesn’t want to be looked at, she doesn’t even want to look at herself. With an oversize hoodies, she can pass through the crowd without anyone noticing; or maybe, people just try to stay away from her and part the crowd to make her a pass by. It is like they can sense her cold heart so that they all keep a distance. She used to try, so hard, to blend in, to belong to, and that never works. People know that her smile is fake when she tries to curve the corner of her mouth; she doesn’t know how but they can, they can tell that this one, is not like the others. So they keep their distance.  
The state of being alone doesn’t really bother her, she enjoys the company of herself more than anyone in the world. Okay, maybe that’s where the real problem lies, she doesn’t want anyone in her life, so nobody wants her in theirs. Is it true? That she doesn’t want anyone around? In one way or another, yes; she never quiet knows how to mingle and the small talks people make always baffle her. It is like she and them are communicating in two totally different languages. They don’t understand what she says and she, does not understand them. Of course, they can move their bodies like some sort of twisted break dancing, to express their ideas with gestures. But like in a pictionary game, they never get it quiet right.  
In a scientific standpoint, human being do need each other to survive. It is called a support system, she leans from Wikipedia, people around you give you the necessary supports, emotionally, materially, psychologically, socially. And even her has to admit that she needs a support system: she is like a kite floating straight to the sky, somewhere that no one has seen or known; there should’ve been someone on the ground to hold the string, to pull her near or to send her free. There isn’t. So she just keeps floating, nothing keeps her down to the ground, yet something stops her from fleeting. She doesn’t want anyone, but she does need someone.  
Somehow, she is glad that not many people care about her, so not many people would feel sad for her death. She carefully lays down a list of people who might care: her family of course, she only see them for once or twice a year, they would certainly weep for her death, but she’s sure that the sorrow would pass soon enough; her friends, or just, well, acquaintance, those she hasn’t met or called or talked to for what seems like a hundred years. For them, she is just a ghost from the past, they might vaguely remember her face but definitely not her name. They might talk of her in a get-together, but the topic would only lasts for seconds, then she is dead to them, like she will soon be; other friends, those who she still talk to every once in awhile, they care, or at least she hopes they do. She considers them her friends while in fact, she doesn’t know if they share the same feeling. Anyway, she rarely contact them, she isn’t a part of their live, their recovery would be quick and easy. She doubts that if they would even notice she’s gone until some one tells them, she’s fine with that, after all, she’s never there; and boom, here comes her greatest concern: her parents. They love her, care for her, unconditionally. If her death would actually affect anyone, it would be them that are disturbed. They would feel destructed and yet, their life won’t be any different, like always, she is never there, they are used to a life without her existence. But oh, they love her, so, so much and she loves them. She feels ashamed that she has to hurt them this way, she’s sorry that she has to cause them pain. But there isn’t any other way is it? Should she carry on a life she doesn’t want simply because they want her to? She loves them so much, but not enough to live for them. “I should live for myself,” she thinks. “therefore, I should die for myself.”  
Anyway, no memorial service, no funeral, don’t even tell anyone if possible.  
She never wants anyone to cry for her (if any).  
Enough about others, and what about her? What she thinks? How she feels? She thinks it is normal to feel happy when good things happen and feel sad when bad things happen. Sunlight, daisy, puppy, ice-cream; losing a game, failing a test, ending a relationship, leaving home. That used to be her, happy when the sun shines and sad when it rains. Then, it happens, she doesn’t know when or how, she doesn’t even know that it has happened.  
Until she does.  
She feels happy a little less, and feels sad a little more often; she smiles a little less and cries a little more. Then three months, maybe four months later, she cries all the time. Once in the morning once at night, one or two hours for a period, her schedule is even more stable than people working out. Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, cry… nothing left in her life, no more. She does not feel happy or excited or interested, just sad. Like a tall glass of drinks, there used to be a glass of orange juice, sweet and sour, then it turns into non-sugar herbal tea, that’s a disgusting drink isn’t it?  
It can get worse though, it is now a glass of water, plain, boring, transparent. She doesn’t even feel sad anymore, and no, it isn’t better. She is now numb, she feels nothing, she wants nothing. Even when she is writing this, what is bound to be her suicide note, she feels nothing.  
Well, if she is completely honest, there’s another feeling, one that she is well-aware of but try to suppress.  
Fear.  
She fears that she would keep being numb; that she would never feel anything ever again; that there are 50 years ahead of her and she fears, that she would live the rest of her life like this. It’s a miserable life sentence, she imprisons herself and throws away the key. Nothing would change until she makes the first move, but how? All the life coaches, psychiatrists, social workers, even the people in her support group say, stay positive, be more open, try to be happy. But non of them actually mention, how. What she seems to fear the most is that, she doesn’t want to change, she doesn’t have the will to fight for her life.  
She would pour away the water and break the empty glass.  
What is death? The nature of life, the inevitable end, the only fairness toward all humans. She always knows she is going to die, even when she was an ignorant happy child, she knows she will die, someday. She never worries about it and she never fears. But is it an answer for her? The answer to the millions questions she has but cannot quiet put into words, she cannot ask and she already loses the hope that someone might know the answer.  
She doesn’t know anymore.  
She is so tired that she wants to sleep for a thousand years; people are so loud that she wants to be deaf; the world is too much of a chaos that all she wants is peace. A sweet, dark, long, restful nap. How great would it be?  
It is not a failure, not a defeat, not a weakness, it’s not even an answer.  
It is peace.  
She makes a decision.  
This is her death.

**Author's Note:**

> Fictional, I am not suicidal. If you are, please talk to someone you trust/love.  
> If you read this by accident, don't let it cause any discomfort.  
> Only a fiction, life is valuable, don't commit suicide!!!!!!!!!!!!


End file.
